A cord of many strands
by Coffeecup35
Summary: Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken. Ecclesiastes 4:12
1. Chapter 1

This is set 6 months after season 2. With the only difference being that in this story War has not yet been declared on Spain. Everyone knows it's coming, but Louis is taking some time to gain the support of his nobles, and to quietly seek out foreign allies. Other than than that, Aramis is at the Abbé, Treville is Minister - but not yet for War, Athos did not manage to catch up to Milady and is Captain of the Musketeers, and D'Artagnan is married.

This is my first ever attempt to write something plot driven, so any constructive criticism is very welcome. All the boys will get lots to do, and to have their pov in this tale I hope. And I expect there will be whump enough to go around!

While it would be lovely, I sadly do not own the Musketeers.

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Athos desperately wanted a drink to steady his hand, but no...he would not allow such a thing till his grim task was finished. In the six months since he had command of the regiment, this was the first time he'd had to write such a letter, but he knew with war looming, it would not be the last. And as Captain, it would be his orders that would send more men to their deaths. For now though, he must focus on this letter - to Etienne's parents.

How does one tell a parent that their smiling son will never return home? Athos sighed and was tempted to reach for the wine again, but he stilled his hand. He felt so inadequate to the task. He was a soldier. He knew he was good with strategy, and he had come to recognise his skill to lead, and surprisingly, to inspire men. But this? He could not find the words. Aramis could have done a better job, he always possessed the ability to say the right things...when he chose to. But Aramis was far away at the abbé. How he wished for the comfort of his presence now, more so than in the entire last six months that he had been gone.

Porthos had made the long journey to the abbé twice during that time, missing his friend as one might miss a limb. Even D'Artagnan, with the demands of a new bride to fill his non garrison time, had managed to visit Aramis once. But the pressure of his new office meant Athos had not laid eyes on his dear brother since he'd left. But now he would have to go.

There was no one to write to for Porthos.

No family but their own to miss him. The thought made Athos throat close. For a man so vibrant, caring, and full of life as Porthos to have so few people who knew what he was, just seemed wrong. But here at the garrison where people saw his true worth there was grief aplenty. Treville's devastation had surprised Athos. The old soldier had lost many men over the years, but his connection to Porthos was different... he grieved, privately, and with dignity, but with a depth Athos had seldom seen from him.

D'Artagnan had grown closer to the big musketeer in the last half year. He had always enjoyed his company, but Porthos and Aramis had been a tight unit, while D'Artagnan had generally gravitated more to Athos. With Aramis departure however and Athos new responsibilities, Porthos and D'Artagnan had naturally spent more time together, growing closer, sharing their own private jokes and silent communication. Porthos dined with D'Artagnan and Constance even more frequently than Athos, a regular and welcome part of their family. D'Artagnan's devastation at Porthos loss was palpable, Athos wished he could offer the boy some comfort, but it took all his strength to keep his own grief in check.

And Aramis was yet to learn of his loss. A letter would not do. He and D'Artagnan would go in person. It was the least they could do for Aramis...for Porthos.

They did not even have a body to bury.

The King had granted D'Artagnan and Athos two days leave to inform Aramis, a sign that even at the palace Porthos loss was felt. It would have pleased Porthos, Athos thought, to find that the King himself had expressed a genuine sorrow at his death - re-telling the story of watching him fighting in the tavern, talking of his great strength and bravery. For Porthos, a gutter rat from the Court of Miracles, to have his passing thought of by the King of France! Athos lips quirked up, he finally had the praise and glory he enjoyed, and so richly deserved. Once again Athos felt his heart clench and his stomach churn. How could it possibly be that he would never hear the booming laugh, or see that beaming grin again. Athos dashed at his stinging eyes and returned to his letter to Etienne's parents.

The boy had been with the garrison just 8 months. He had been extremely shy, barely speaking, when he did speak the reason for his reticence became obvious, for Etienne had a stammer. He had been a promising recruit however, competent at hand to hand, good with a sword, and very good with a musket. Athos, when he took the Captaincy, recognised the boys skills, but his painful shyness meant he lacked confidence, and struggled around the other musketeers. So Athos had begun to send him on missions with Porthos and D'Artagnan. Porthos warmth, and garrulous personality, and D'Artagnan's friendly exhuberance had brought the boy out if his shell. He proved to have a shy but ready smile. He clearly looked up to both men. It had amused Athos greatly to see D'Artagnan the subject of hero worship instead of doling it out!

Just over two weeks ago Etienne and Porthos had been sent to take some sensitive papers to a Barron who lived a days ride from Paris. They had been expected back no more than two days later. After five days absence the concern had arisen. A search party was sent out. They made it all the way to the Baron's to discover that the letters had arrived on time. So whatever had happened had taken place on the return journey. Athos sent two more search parties, and yesterday they had brought back Etienne's body.

He had been found on a steep bank beside a fast flowing river. There was little left of the quiet smiling boy, the animals had gotten to him, eaten him away. It seemed clear he had been dead for many days. Signs of blood, footsteps and horses hooves surrounded his body and, caught on a nearby root, at the edge of the river was Porthos blood stained bandana. It seemed likely he had gone into the river. The search party followed it downstream, hoping to at least find Porthos body. About two miles further, caught in some branches, they did find a body - with Porthos dagger buried in its chest. The man wore no uniform, or anything to identify him, but signs of a violent life showed in the scars that littered his bloated corpse.

Perhaps they had been fighting and both gone into the water.

Perhaps Porthos body had been swallowed by the river and would never be found.

Perhaps, the indomitable part of Athos heart did whisper, Porthos had escaped from the river...but then why hadn't he returned?

Athos knew one thing for certain, if Porthos were alive he would move heaven and earth to make it home. But after so many days, Athos had tried to make himself accept - his friend was gone.

He swiped again at his eyes as he finished the letter. Telling the parents of their son's bravery, dedication and devotion to duty. Then he reached for the bottle . But no sooner had he held it to his lips than he heard a commotion on the stairs outside his office, and a breathless D'Artagnan barrelled through the door

" You're not going to believe this!" he panted

And then she walked in. As beautiful as ever. Raven curls falling on her velvet cloak.

" Hello Athos. Have you missed me? "

Athos breath caught in his throat as it so often did when confronted by his wife.

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I really admire those who do lots of historical research for their stories. Sadly I'm not one of them. So if this is at odds with historical accuracy - well that's highly likely and I apologise. Thanks for reading. Reviews are much appreciated.

Oh and despite what the first chapter implies, I do not write death fics.

I'm off on holiday in a couple of days, so unless I can concentrate on the plane, it could be 2 weeks till the next update. But I will try not to leave too long between chapters if I can.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to all who read, reviewed and favourited the last chapter. Sorry for the delay in updating, but I was on holiday and that means so much work to catch up on when I get back. I hope to up date at least every week from now on.

Milady

She seldom allowed her uncertainty to show. Her studied self assurance an armour crafted over many hard, painful years trying to survive the harsh Parisian slums. It was what helped her to make it through the humiliations of her time in Saracen's service, - a mere commodity to be sold, hired out to fulfil the fantasies of ugly, sweaty, cruel men. It had allowed her to rise above such humble beginnings and become the wife of a Comte!

Never show weakness - unless it is to gain the sympathy of a mark, as with the King. Never regret. Never confess. Never stop fighting even when all seems lost and you face a hangman's noose! And never be weakened by _love_. Love is only ever a weapon to be used against others. An illusion to project to get what you need, to bend another to your will, or gain an advantage. But she broke her own rules when she met Athos.

At first he had simply been another rich man to be used as a meal ticket for a time. Someone she could seduce, steal from and leave without a backward glance. But no! She had fallen for him before she even realised. A deeply honourable man, caring, despite the expectation of his rank. He revealed a passionate nature beneath the calm facade. A desire to break out from the cold restraints of his privileged upbringing, to break through the polite and accepted haughty looks. Athos the musketeer was the true man she had seen beneath the societally expected front. Seeing him as she had the last few weeks - struggling to protect Aramis, The Queen and France, leading others, he had been so alive, so vibrant, so much the man she had not been able to stop falling in love with.

She had spent so long hating him. Craving his death. Wanting him to suffer as excruciatingly as she had. Wanting to destroy him. She had almost succeeded! The haunted man who had let her go after she faced his sword in the alleyway showed that it had almost turned out as she hoped. She had believed what she said then, neither would be free until they were both dead. But these last few weeks she hadn't been able to ignore her feelings. The passion between them exerting such a powerful force that neither could escape or ignore. The realisation that she still wanted him. That despite his treatment of her, ordering her to be hanged, she still loved him. And despite all the pain she had visited upon him, despite the last few years. Despite her plotting with the Cardinal, her manipulation of D'Artagnan. Despite _Thomas_. She knew he felt the same. So, as she stood by her carriage...waiting, she truly believed he would join her. But the longer she waited the more her hope dimmed, until she could hold no longer. With a leaden heart she returned to the carriage and started the journey for Calais and then England. As she sat in the back with the curtains closed, she did something she had not done since the day he had proposed. She cried. Tears were a weakness, not to be tolerated where she grew up. Only used as a weapon to manipulate weak men. But for a few moments she let herself be weak. To feel and accept all she had lost. Then she drew her false cloak of self assurance around her. Lifted her chin defiantly and steeled herself to survive.

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At Calais she met him. Pierre Delacroix. A third son of a noble family. The estate had many debts entailed with it, so the smarter members of the clan had sought to make good investments in trade. If those trades involved certain illegalities and dealing with unsavoury characters, not to mention connections with the Indies and the shipment of human cargo, well so be it.

He swaggered around with the arrogance of a man with money, pedigree and very little true grace or benefits of breeding. She knew he had noticed her as she ate in the tavern. Trying to decide her next move, and wondering how long the few baubles she had managed to sequester from Louis gifts would last her after her passage to England was secured. Always a woman to recognise a lucrative opportunity, she demurely returned his glance. Effecting a shyness of an elegant woman forced to wait for passage in such a place. She soon reeled him in. She was a widow, who was forced to travel to relatives in England due to her late husbands debts having left her penniless. Hating to leave her beloved France, but a lone woman without out a protector had little choice!

Six months later she was firmly established as his mistress. With reasonably elegant lodgings, and a healthy clothes and jewellery stipend, such as befits a man who wishes to demonstrate his prosperity when parading his beautiful possessions. Fortunately his business dealings meant his presence was not as tediously frequent as it might have been. Allowing her time to enjoy herself in the large provincial town he called home. Although her time alone unfortunately allowed her more time for thought and reflection, and unavoidably she returned in her mind to Athos. Those passionate last few days they had shared just half a year ago, the fact that Pierre couldn't hold a candle to the man in any way shape or form, in manner, in kindness or in the bedroom. She was not prone to dwelling on such things except when they fuelled her desire for vengeance. But for all her disappointment and hurt that Athos had not followed her, she found she could not wish him ill. In fact to her amazement she found the opposite. She hoped he was well, and safe. The rumours of war ahead with Spain were everywhere. The realisation that Athos would be a part of that, sent to fight and perhaps die on some distant battlefield, filled her with a dread and alarm that she could not deny. Somehow her anger and resentment, and hatred for him had gone. She wished she had another chance. To be better. To be what they could be. But no. She refused to dwell on such things. This was about survival. She did not need to steal, kill or harm anyone. She had what she needed from Pierre for now, and had already sought to acquire some things to help her start over when he grew tired of her. She knew survival...oh yes she knew it. But her time with Athos meant she wanted to try to survive without having to kill.

It was 6 months to the day since she had waited in vain for Athos and for the first time she was returning to Paris. Pierre had invited her to accompany him to show her off at some balls thrown by acquaintances and business associates. From what she had gathered these would not be elegant soirées but rather more debased entertainments for a niche crowd. Hence why she had been invited rather than his wife. Pierre promised her visits to fine dressmakers in Paris to ensure she decorated his arm perfectly at these events. Another symbol of his successful acquisitions.

But en route still a day away from the city, he had another surprise for he. Some special entertainments organised by a disgusting little man named Devereaux. She knew the type. Obsequiousness oozing from every pore as he oiled his way around those with money, power or influence. His cold, cruel and calculating nature could not be hidden from someone like her. Nor was the lewd way he stared at her when Pierre looked away. They met with a crowd of about two hundred other people here for the show, and were lead deep into the woods, by a group of vicious looking men in Devereaux's employ, mercenaries, swords for hire. The spectators included nobles and rich men, who were kept separate from the lower class patrons who could afford the entrance fees and the price of the wagers. The handful of women attending as guests (and not as purveyors of drinks and available for hire for the night) were also Mistresses of the wealthy patrons. After all one wouldn't bring one's wife to such an event! In a large clearing in the woods were a number of animal pens. The squeal of dead and dying animals and stench of blood made her feel sick. In one pen were the cock fights, in another dogs. These were gathered round by the lower classes, clearly Devereaux was egalitarian about his willingness to not miss out on any source of income. Then there was a cage with bears and some other exotic animals not from France's shores. As they passed Pierre mentioned that he had sourced some of these animals, on his trading ships, for Devereaux. All these entertainments were being bet on by the spectators. Finally she, Pierre and the other wealthy patrons were ushered into a large tent. This was where the special bouts took place. The ones that set Devereaux's entertainments above the rest. A hefty fee was paid by all entering and much more would be exchanged to gamble on the outcomes. Milady knew that no matter what, the house would always win. She was still unclear as to what sort of fights could be taking place that excited such interest and high entrance fees. She entered the tent and gathered with the other spectators around a large cage in the centre. Devereaux then slithered his way to the front and addressed his audience.

"Welcome my esteemed and learned guests" He fawned.

"Such fine, educated gentlemen as yourselves will of course know well of the great arenas of old. Where fine folk, such as yourselves, got to watch as men were pitted against other men in a fight to the death!" He paused revelling in the crowds attention.

"Four men will enter the ring. Four different weapons will then be thrown in. A dagger, A sword, A pistol and A cudgel. Which participant will reach which weapon first?"

Devereaux grinned revealing yellow or missing teeth.

" Quickly place your bets and select your champion! The winner will be the man alive and standing at the end. He will then defend his win at the next event. Should he survive ten battles he will be freed" at this the crowd booed - mercy clearly not in their plans.

" I should perhaps tell you, my fine friends that no champion has survived more than six events" The spectators laughed raucously at this. "And, Should any of the losers still live at the end of the bout, then you may decide their fate. Like the Emperors of old, raise your thumb upward and he will be spared to fight again. Turn your thumbs downward and he will be run through. You have the power of life and death!"

Devereaux voice rose to a crescendo at the last part and the crowd cheered. Milady smiled to cover her distaste as she saw Pierre beaming and baying for blood along with the rest.

"Without further ado, your competitors!" Three large men with sacks over their heads were shoved into the arena by at least eight of Devereaux's hired thugs.

"And our reigning champion - survivor of four bouts, here to fight for the fifth time!" Devereaux raised an arm to his right where a fourth man was shoved in, struggling with his three burly captors. Then one by one the hoods were removed before the captors quickly retreated locking the cage behind them. Milady gasped as the Champion's hood was removed and there stood Porthos. A look of fury on his face.

Then weapons were thrown through the bars and the vicious fight for survival began.

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This is the first time I have written Milady. I love Maimie's portrayal of her. I hope I managed to capture something of the character. I would appreciate any feedback on this. I realise I left it before the action, but you will get to read about this in later chapters. The next chapter will be up within the week, possibly even by the weekend.

Thanks so much for reading. Reviews are so appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you to all who read and reviewed the last chapter. The reviews really encourage me.

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Porthos

His first awareness was of pain. Deep, and vicious, and throbbing. In his head, and his ribs. The next thing he noticed was the cold and the damp, water dripping from the stone wall onto his shoulder. Carefully he sat up. Hand reaching to his head coming away sticky with blood. Desperately trying to clear the fog in his brain, he attempted to remember where he was and how he got here, but the persistent thump in his head made that difficult. He squinted around the room. It was dark, but some moonlight came through a small barred window near the roof. He hauled himself to his feet with the help of the cold stone behind him. The tiny window was a good six inches above the stretch of his arms, so whatever lay outside remained unknown. He appeared to be in a small room, it reminded him of a cross between a jail and a monk's cell. A pallet on the floor, a chamber pot and a pitcher the only items present. His hands were bound in front of him with a chain. One foot also chained to the ground with just enough give to reach the only door to the room, which was heavy, and wooden, and locked. Another even smaller barred window sat in the door. Behind it a corridor, dank and apparently empty. Pressing his face to the small window in the door, he could just make out other similar doors on the opposite side of the corridor. And possibly on this side as well, though he couldn't really see from the angle. As his foggy head cleared he became more aware of the sounds of other men. Snores, grunts of pain, someone using a chamber pot. And beyond that the growls, screeches and howls of animals.

Suddenly his confusion cleared and the memories slammed into him ...Etienne! They had been heading home to the garrison, task successfully completed. Leaving the trail to reach a river, to water the horses and refill their own water skins. The shy young man had opened up, seemed relaxed and happy. Telling Porthos of his little brother and the apple tree they loved to climb back home. As they reached the top of the steep river bank the peace of the afternoon was suddenly shattered by the sound of a musket ball. It slammed into Etienne and he tumbled backwards off his horse. There were six of them, four on horses and two others on foot, waiting behind trees to ambush with pistols. Porthos roared and immediately charged his horse at the gun men, almost slicing one in two with his sword as he tried to reload, then turning and racing towards the other. Another shot found its mark in his horses neck. The poor beast reared up then fell, Porthos barely managing to jump clear, rolling to his feet and quickly dispatching the other gunman before he knew what was happening. Another rode at him sword drawn, while yet another advanced from behind. He quickly threw his dagger, but had barely a moment to register it's satisfying thud into the bandits chest, propelling the man off his horse and down the steep bank into the racing river below. Porthos then whisked round sword held high at the other attacker. The cudgel caught his sword arm, pain shuddering through him as he dropped his sword. Quickly recovering he grabbed the man and pulled him off his horse, almost bringing the horse down with him. As they grappled on the ground, Porthos heard another shot and a man immediately behind him, dagger in hand about to strike, fell dead at his side. Looking up Porthos saw Etienne propped on one elbow, smoking musket raised. He smiled a brief bloody smile at Porthos, then fell, never to rise again. The momentary distraction was enough for the remaining two bandits to turn the tide on Porthos, a club to the head had him seeing stars, but desperately clinging to consciousness as three vicious kicks to the ribs stole his breath.

"Finish him Jacques" growled the man Porthos had pulled from his horse.

"No, wait!" the man named Jacques, a bear of a man with yellow teeth, ordered.

"He killed Alain and the others, he deserves to die, slowly and painfully" replied the first, underlining his words with a knife held beneath Porthos chin, forcing his head back, and nicking his skin at the neck.

"We're doin this for the money" Jacques replied in a tone that brooked no arguments, gun in one hand, the other riffling through Porthos doublet and relieving him of his purse. He already had Etienne's purse and pocket watch on his belt which fuelled Porthos' fury

"I'll kill you, you bastard" the musketeer growled, despite the deeper cut to his neck that resulted.

"These few trinkets ain't gonna make up for what this cost us, we need to make it count. We'll sell him to Devereaux, he'll pay good money for the likes of 'im"

The last sentence had Porthos thrusting his head backwards, hearing the satisfying crunch of the man with the knife's nose and feeling the spray of his blood, causing him to drop the weapon. Porthos received a vicious crack across his head from Jacques' pistol for his efforts. Falling forward to be subject to more kicks to the torso. Jacques then rasped in his ear

"it's good you're worth more to us alive. But don't worry, you'll die soon enough. But at least we'll get paid first. Oh, and if you think anyone's comin to rescue ya we'll make sure they think your a goner! "

The last thing Porthos saw was Jacques' yellow toothed smirk, before another sharp pain in the back of his skull and all was black.

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Porthos guessed it had been several hours since he woke in the cell, daylight already creeping through the high window, when he heard the heavy door unlocked and three large men with weapons entered. They were followed by a weasley little man who, despite his diminutive size and appearance, managed to possess an air of definate authority.

Porthos raised his chin and pulled himself up to his full height, giving his most intimidating glare. The small man simply nodded at one of his guards and Porthos received a sharp blow to the face from a kosh in the mans hand, rattling his teeth and aching head. But he quickly regained his feet ...and his glare. The man laughed and cried,

"That's it! ... That fire is what will give you the chance of winning your freedom Monsieur! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Devereaux" the small man flourished "and you have the chance to become a very fine champion. To beat the odds. "

"What odds?" Growled Porthos

The man laughed again. A hollow and unpleasant sound

"Think of it as competing in the great gladiator arenas of old. With the added bonus that if you survive and win just ten battles you win your freedom"

He went on to explain the fights. The four weapons and the fight to the death.

"You want me to fight...and kill for amusement!" Porthos voice grew louder as he spat the last words. Receiving only a gap toothed smirk in reply. "And if I choose not to?"

Devereaux sighed in mock resignation "Well then, you will die...The others in the arena will do anything to win their freedom. Believe me they will not hesitate to kill. My current champion has already won four matches. Trust me when I say he will do anything to survive. There are no rules once the fight begins."

"I'm a musketeer, my friends will come looking for me" Porthos raised his chin, his characteristic tone of defiance in place.

"We are a select operation ... strictly invitation only. Oh, and your friends will most certainly believe you dead. Claimed by the river I'm afraid." Again he gave a melodramatic sigh of regret. "Believe me no one is coming for you. But you have the chance to win your freedom."

"And you expect me to believe if I win ten times I will be released? That you would actually let me go, and bring the King's musketeers down on you! How daft do you think I am?" scoffed Porthos

"Believe what you will. But you don't strike me as a man who gives up easily, or as someone who will lie down and die. Either way you will be going into the arena in two days time. Fight. Or die. The choice is yours."

Two days later Porthos was marched hooded and chained, along with others - he couldn't tell how many. Dragged onto some sort of cart or wagon. After rattling along for what felt like a couple of hours. He was roughly shoved off the cart, still hooded. He could hear shouts and cheers from a crowd near by. Smell blood and animals. Disorientated by the hood, he did his best to focus on the sounds, to understand something of his surroundings. Before long he was shoved into the ring and it was time for him to make his choice.

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I realise I'm cutting off before the fight action again. It is coming I promise, but there is a lot to set up first.

Reviews are so appreciated. And constructive criticism will help me to improve. This is the first time I've tried something with so much plot, and I would appreciate any advice I can get!

Anyway thanks to all who take the time to read.


	4. Chapter 4

Apologies again for the gap in posting. This story is taking me way longer to pull together than expected. Still I'm learning a lot about how quickly...or rather not...I can write. Thank you for those still reading and bearing with me.

Thanks to all who reviewed, read, favourited or followed so far. I am truly grateful.

And now D'Artagnan has his say. And just for you Tidia if you are still reading, here is some D'Artagnan whump! Hope you all enjoy.

Once again I sadly do not own The Musketeers, but a girl can dream.

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Chapter 4

D'Artagnan

Rolling over in bed, feeling Constance's soft warm body next to his, a swell of contentment filled D'Artagnan. A smile automatically taking over his handsome face. This amazing woman was his wife. Yesterday they had stood in Church and announced their love for each other before God and the world! He had not felt such a deep sense of joy since the day he had been commissioned. As always there came a moment of sadness that his father had not been there to see him married, just as he had wished him present when he knelt before the King and stood a musketeer at last.

His father would have loved Constance, although in his heart D'Artagnan knew he would never have condoned him engaging in a relationship with a married woman. A brief clench of guilt squeezed at his gut as Bonicieux came to mind. D'Artagnan had done more than a few things this last year that he was less than proud of, and the brief moment when he had genuinely considered letting Bonicieux die, without attempting to assist him, was perhaps the heaviest on his conscience. It was a moment when he had abandoned his honour. He was also dissatisfied with his treatment of Constance in the aftermath of her sudden widowhood. His only excuse was that he was a young man in Love, and sometimes rational thought and concepts such as honour can be overtaken by desperate passion. No, he was not impressed with his reflection on such actions. But now, as he gazed at his beautiful, wonderful, beloved Constance he promised himself that he would be better. He would honour and cherish her forever. He would love and protect her, and strive to be worthy of this amazing woman at his side. Again the joy infused his body and he drew her closer to him. A sleepy contented sound escaping from her lips as she snuggled close, smiling in her sleep. After all that had happened. The desperate dash to save Constance and Aramis. The terrible risk to them all. He felt almost guilty for feeling such true happiness. But no! This was what they fought for. For their family, for love, friendship and brotherhood. And he vowed again he would spend every day granted to him seeking to remain worthy of the incredible woman.

But war was looming. Each day moving closer to the inevitable. He and his fellow musketeers were frequently called away to escort Louis to secret rendezvous' with nobles and potential allies from within and with out France's borders. Secret documents, and even monies to fill the war chest, were delivered under cover of darkness and fear of Spanish spies. After all one had managed to infiltrate the Kings most trusted inner circle. Who's to say if there were others highly placed? While the soldier in D'Artagnan craved the excitement of such intrigues, the husband hated to see the fear in Constance eyes every time she waved him off on a mission. She is a strong woman, and she accepts the realities of being a soldier's wife, but it still pains him to put her through the worry and fear.

Then there are his brothers. So much has changed there too. Aramis is gone, and he misses him greatly. And Athos - Treville could not have picked a finer replacement. D'Artagnan laughingly admits to himself that he has lost none of his awe and wonder for the man. He values his opinion as much now as he did as a raw recruit. He can't imagine that he will ever grow out of the desire for his approval and respect. But now Athos has a new role, one that allows him less time with his brothers. Oh, he is still very much a part of D'Artagnan and Porthos lives, but there are less nights with them in the tavern. Fewer missions were he accompanies them, and fewer opportunities for him to dine with the newly weds at their home. While he may not be miles away sequestered in an Abbé, D'Artagnan can't help but find that he misses him too.

And Porthos . He seems to have it worst with all the changes. D'Artagnan has the draw and delights of a new wife to lift his spirits and fill his time. Athos has the demands of Captaincy. Whereas Porthos has lost his best friend, and another is distanced by duty. Not that he says anything, he still laughs his booming laugh. He still cheats heartily at cards. And he still spars with alacrity in the practice yard. But D'Artagnan notices the moments when he is silent. When the smile doesn't reach his eyes, and when the laugh is faked. D'Artagnan has always valued Porthos. But as they spend more time together without their brothers they begin to know each other better. Athos trusts them with the most secret and important missions. Trusts their skills, ability to strategise, to improvise and work with synchronicity. So they spend more time together. Travelling long roads. Camping in cold woods or staying in draughty inns, or barns. Gradually D'Artagnan learns more about his large friend. As they sit by camp fires keeping watch he tells him of his childhood. The scratching to survive. Forced to steal. Learning to cheat at cards, not for fun, but to feed himself, Flea and Charon, and other children from the court of miracles who would never make it to adulthood. With a slight crack in his voice Porthos tells him how he feels part of his desire to succeed as a musketeer comes from the recognition that he owes it to the memories of all the others who never made it out. Out of childhood. Out of the Court. And D'Artagnan understands now, the absolute certainty Athos and Aramis had had that Porthos did not kill the young man in the alley when he had been accused and sentenced to death. He knows now why Aramis threw him up against a wall when D'Artagnan questioned if Porthos might have accidentally shot him. Because, the more he knows Porthos, he realises that he is a protector. Capable of violence in battle, or to defend the innocent, but a protector nonetheless. He would never have killed an innocent when drunk. When D'Artagnan blurted out this guilty revelation one day, Porthos just laughed, clapped him on the back and told him "Don't be daft whelp! I wasn't even sure for a while that I hadn't done it."

D'Artagnan shared his own stories of growing up in Gascony, the beauty of the region, the kindness of his Father and Mother, his craving for adventure, and ability to get himself into scrapes with alarming regularity! D'Artagnan recognised that Porthos needed these times even more than he did. When they were away on missions it was clear how much he missed Athos and Aramis. He shared more wild stories of the adventures the three of them had experienced before D'Artagnan joined them, and D'Artagnan delighted in the tales of daring as much as he ever had in the early days in their company. Porthos was a frequent and welcomed guest for dinner. Constance loved his humour and stories too, and his kind and genuine nature. He didn't possess the obvious charm of Aramis, nor the fine courtly manners of the former Comte Athos. He was just honest, good, down to earth, gentle giant Porthos. He dinned with them at least twice a week when they were at home.

Four months after the wedding Constance's greatest fear almost came to pass.

Porthos and D'Artagnan had been assigned to collect some secret documents from a well placed French spy. They were to meet in a wood not far from the border. The elaborate attempt to throw off Spanish suspicion involving three other sets of musketeers acting as decoys. But D'Artagnan and Porthos would carry the true letters. They made it to about thirty miles from Paris when the attack happened. D'Artagnan's horse died in the first volley of shots. He rolled away and sheltered behind the animals corpse. Porthos' horse had thrown him and bolted. Musketeer horses were trained to cope in battle, but the squeal of it's dying companion had instilled a flight response. Porthos seemed slightly dazed by the fall, shaking his head to clear it, before reaching for his pistol. D'Artagnan shot one of the attackers who was about to shoot the disorientated musketeer. He quickly had to pull his own sword and engage two men approaching him, regaining his feet and attempting to keep a peripheral eye on Porthos and the other two enemy soldiers. He was relieved to see his friend was now standing, and fighting. After that it was a blur of swords clashing and yelling as they battled to survive. The enemy were good swordsmen, but D'Artagnan had learned from the best. His time as a musketeer had taught him control. The ability to focus and find the enemy's weakness. Athos would have been proud of the way he handled himself, the rash young man becoming the wise and seasoned soldier. His own opponents dead, he turned to help Porthos despatch his final attacker. The two men sharing a brief post adrenalin laugh, acknowledging their relief that they had survived, when D'Artagnan saw it. The first man he had shot raised himself on one elbow harquebus in hand, he must have been quietly priming it while they were fighting for their lives, aiming at Porthos back. Without a thought D'Artagnan jumped to action, pushing the big man out of the way. Then white hot pain was all he knew. Crumpling to the ground with a grunt he heard Porthos scream his name, was vaguely aware of his friend viciously running the shooter through. Next thing he felt was Porthos strong arms pulling him gently into his lap. A litany of "Lemme see" and "it's alright, it's not bad, you're gonna be fine" falling from his lips. And more agony as Porthos pressed down hard on his wound, desperately trying to stop the rapidly flowing red.

"It's gone straight through, just need to stop the bleeding and you'll be fine, ya hear me!"

He was aware of Porthos ripping a shirt from one of the attackers and bandaging the wound tightly. But the pale fabric was rapidly turning crimson.

D'Artagnan drifted out and when he woke again the glow of a fire was at his side. Porthos had his dagger in it, heating. Apologising and saying he would have to cauterise the wound. Then there was pain. Deep. Hot. Blinding. D'Artagnan did not ever recall experiencing such agony, till his mind shut down and the relief of unconsciousness claimed him. He remembers little disjointed bits of the next hours. Every time he drifted back in he was aware of Porthos voice. Sharing Stories. Speaking words of comfort. Telling him that Constance would kill him if he didn't make it home. He came to realise he was also being carried. Cradled against Porthos broad chest. Head nestled against the crook of his neck, aware of the studs of his friend's collar digging into his cheek. His legs and right arm hanging loose while his left arm was held in a sling, bandages covering his left shoulder and chest. He would later learn that Porthos had carried him for more than ten miles. They had been travelling off the regular tracks. The Spanish horses had also bolted. Porthos had looked but found none nearby. With the secret information still to deliver, and not knowing if more Spanish soldiers pursued them (for the men they had fought had definitely spoken Spanish, even if they wore no uniform), with no horses, and D'Artagnan badly injured, Porthos had done the only thing he could. Bundled up weapons and supplies and tied them to his back, again using the enemies clothing. Then carried D'Artagnan, until he could find a horse or some help, avoiding the roads as much as possible in case of further attack. Hours later exhausted he had stumbled across a village and finally been able to commandeer a horse for the final leg of the journey.

D'Artagnan awoke in his own bed. Constance was curled at his side, looking pale and shattered. Porthos snoring gently in a chair beside. He could not help the small groan that escaped him as his wound made itself known. Constance woke immediately, frantic, half awake eyes going straight to D'Artagnan, "You're awake!" She cried, surprise and relief warring on her face. " I thought... I thought... It's been _five_ days!" She stuttered. Then her eyes filled and she threw her arms round D'Artagnan, sobbing with relief. He just held her trembling form, mumbling apologies and any words of love and comfort that could form in his groggy mind. Porthos big hand squeezed his uninjured shoulder. Big grin taking over his face "Welcome back lad. You been causing that lass of yours and me no end of worry. Your wound was infected. Nasty fever. It broke yesterday, thank God. You don't believe in doin' things by half, do ya?" For a moment the grin fell, and D'Artagnan could see the worry and exhaustion bleeding into his friends dark eyes, before he shook himself assuring him "but your fine now. Shoulder should heal up good and proper, and ya never were much cop with yer left hand anyways" cheeky grin appearing across his scarred face once again.

As the healing process continued D'Artagnan heard how devastated Constance had been when she saw him. How Porthos had never left his side, supporting and comforting Constance, and sharing in all his care. Athos had been present as frequently as he could when not called away by the King or urgent Musketeer business. He learnt of Porthos guilt that D'Artagnan had been shot protecting him. He quickly tried to reassure the larger man that he was not to blame, that he had simply done his duty. But Porthos reminded him he had responsibilities now - he needed to consider Constance. After as much arguing the point as a convalescing D'Artagnan could handle, he knew he had to let it drop. It would take a lot for Porthos to accept what had happened. But what D'Artagnan did remember from immediately after the shooting, was the life line of Porthos voice in his ear, and the comfort and protection that surrounded him as he carried him all those miles. Then the kindness and support of his presence for both him and Constance as he gradually recovered.

Finally back on his feet and returning to duty three weeks later D'Artagnan knew that Constance worry for him had increased exponentially. But, as the strong, amazing woman she was, she continued to accept that to love a soldier meant she must live with such fear. And she assured D'Artagnan that he was worth the risk.

His friendship with Porthos had also grown, forged stronger by the fire of injury and fear, love and support. So when Porthos disappeared a few weeks later, and then the word came of his death, both DArtagnan and Constance grief was deep and crushing and consuming. That is until _she_ turned up at their door. Beautiful and poised as ever, demanding that he get in touch with Athos.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

It's probably very clear that I have no medical knowledge, sorry.

Thanks so much for reading. Please review if you have the chance, they do so encourage me.

Can't believe we haven't got to Aramis yet. Next chapter should pick up at the end of the first, and the one after should catch up with Aramis. Then I'm thinking the final few as the boys seek out their missing brother...with a little help! At least that's the plan at the moment. Probably 7 or 8 chapters in all.


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